Forgive me, my Lady
by SoSaysL
Summary: "We will win," he says, his eyes a searing, brilliant green. "I will burn cities to the ground before I let anyone hurt you." She believes him. Hers is a ironclad love, determined and loyal; but he has always matched her steadfast affection with the ferocity, the passion of a thousand burning suns. Oneshots. [Twelve Shots of Summer: Trinity Limit]
1. Chapter 1

[A/n]: This will likely be a series of one-shots, all set in the same universe and loosely telling its story. The idea for this fic came when I learned that that Marinette and Adrien belong to a long line of superheroes, and the tales of some of their ancestors (Jeanne d'Arc, Hercules) didn't end... particularly well. In any case we've got a setup ripe for all sorts of wonderful things: what if the Miraculous universe had an internal logic much darker, much more complicated, than anyone ever expected?

I've written this one-shot for the first prompt "Inheritance" and the alternate prompt "Unfinished Business" for the amazing Twelve Shots of Summer community, which features a talented and awesome set of authors writing one-shots for the twelve prompts of summer. Seriously, they're amazing.

As usual, I came up with a plot twist and couldn't rest until I'd written it.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 _Adrien Agreste, modern-day Paris._

* * *

 _1._

 _Farewell, demon._

 _The dark-haired girl's voice is steady and sure, and her silhouette is slender in the shadows of the night. She's dressed in fine red linens with black markings, her dainty face partially hidden by an exquisite headdress. So she expels demons from their hearts, and with a mere flick of her hand cleanses the streets of evil. Where she treads demons part; when she speaks the whispers of Ammit the destroyer fade into nothingness._

 _Such a purpose could only belong to the divine, the heavenly. Indeed, when the people of the city had first seen her, they thought she was a demigodess, daughter of the sun god Ra himself._

 _As he watches her he doesn't blame them, not at all._

* * *

He awakens haunted by glimpses of fading rosy sunsets over endless desert sands, by captivating midnight skies adorned with gleaming stars; he finds himself grasping at hazy memories that he knows can't exist. He struggles with the fading familiarity of these dreams, the lingering sense that he has returned _home_.

Slowly, he blinks the sleep out of his eyes and rolls over, not wanting to leave the comforting warmth of his bed. Already his dream is fading, slipping from his consciousness like powdery sand through his fingers.

He chuckles as he sits up, because even in a foreign sun-baked, golden city in a sea of sand, his Lady is still the same: beautiful and sensible, inscrutable and unreadable, determined to defend the innocent and pursue justice.

It seems there's never a shortage of things to do as the superheroes of Paris, and so he finds himself living quite the double life. This is a charade he has kept up for years and years, and he's quite proud of himself that he has never slipped, not even once.

He dutifully goes to class in the mornings; sometimes he finds he has to slip away to fight some villain with hilarious powers alongside his favorite battle partner. In the evenings, the crime-fighting duo sometimes patrols the streets of Paris to check for anything out of the ordinary. He wouldn't give up these nights for anything: the cool night breeze, the gorgeous lights blinking yellow-and-white across the dark landscape, the easy companionship and camaraderie they share.

His enthusiasm freshly renewed, he leaps out of bed to begin the day.

He sees his beloved Lady that afternoon, when she leaps out from behind a telephone pole and rescues him from being hit with a freeze ray.

"Chat!" she yells, mirth dancing in her eyes. "You okay?"

" _Feline_ fine now that I'm not _fur_ -eezing," he answers with a wink, and he swears he sees her chuckle.

No, he wouldn't give this up for anything.

* * *

 _2._

 _She raises her hand and bids farewell to the demons, a faint smile lingering on her lips._

 _She was rumored the symbol of wisdom and war, Athena's messenger in the cobbled streets sent to fight evil. She wields a glimmering sword and shield, a red-tufted helmet crowning her dark hair; her crimson cape flows in her wake, tossing in the wind._

 _By her side he appears, a warrior in black with long, dark spear in his hand. They believe him the patron of death, the avenging death angel sent from Hades himself to do battle for the living. They fight in tandem, in a perfect synchrony of whirling red and black,_ _and he finds himself enamored even against his will. They are opposites, and there is no denying it; but together, they are nearly unstoppable._

 _He reaches desperately for her hand-_

* * *

He awakens in the early sunlight, an odd unease pooling in his chest. He doesn't remember anything, really, but the feeling had been so vivid, so visceral. The suffocating sense that he had lost something important, the lingering beats of some ancient despair escaping with each breath.

He forces himself to get up and swing his feet over the side of the bed, and immediately more pressing concerns swarm his mind.

He knows his Lady so well, has memorized her every last mannerism, and he had instantly known when something wasn't quite right.

He remembers the tension settling in her shoulders earlier this week, the worry that had coiled in her blue eyes. She speaks nothing of it, instead preferring to discuss strategies for capturing an akuma or congratulate him on a job well done. Yet he senses a slight tension in her voice and manner, as if she's conflicted, as if she's facing inner turmoil.

 _You can tell me anything_ , he wants to say. _I will always be here for you._

He holds his tongue, trusting that if she wants to discuss the matter with him, she will. And as the cold nights grow longer and winter approaches, and his Lady becomes more and more silent and pensive, he cannot quell the deep disquiet that has begun to rise in his heart.

* * *

 _3._

 _She raises her sword to the heavens and is greeted with a glittering sliver of light descending from the stormy skies._ _She is hailed as their savior, come to spark victory from the ashes. She has led them from ruin to triumph, her deep red robes swirling in the wind and her voice powerful and clear._

 _Together they fight back to back, a blur of precisely honed fury and deadly silver weapons. Clothed in dark armor, wielding a heavy longsword and a steel crossbow, he is always by her side. This trust they share is absolute. It is the certainty that each of their lives lies in the hands of the other._

 _Soon her gaze is hard with the sins she has borne, the demons she has cleansed, the agonies she has suffered._ _This revolution cannot last forever. She cannot always win._

 _I see fire, she once told him in a moment of weakness._

 _Now he stares at the flames disbelievingly, ruthless red and gold against the shadows, and a terrible realization floods through him, real and gut-wrenching-_

* * *

He is suddenly awake in the darkness.

He blinks in the silence, gasping for breath. The snowstorm howls outside furiously, and chills creep down his spine. He's _shaking_.

Already the images are fading fast from his mind. Yet the shock remains, almost tangible, and again he sees searing fire burning away at everything he had ever held dear.

He shakes his head, set on calming himself. These are nothing but nightmares, he tells himself. Nothing has gone wrong. These are merely his deepest fears mapped onto reality, the result of festering worries and an overactive imagination. He will always be beside his Lady, and she by his.

Yet, his Lady's blue eyes have become as cold, as quiet, as the snow-blanketed winter. That much is true. Sometimes she might offer a slight smile at the occasional cat pun. Yet there are times when she does not acknowledge him, when she merely looks ahead with that same, steely determination and ignores his presence. Their work together is methodical now; she dispatches demons with a stark efficiency he has never seen in her before.

And when he tries to discuss what is troubling her, he is gently but firmly rebuffed. No longer can he read her so effortlessly; now he scarcely knows what she is thinking.

She is growing increasingly distant, and he fears he will lose her. He reminds himself to have faith, to believe in the girl of magic and miracles. In the end, the people rely on her to purify the demons that prey on their hearts. She is the one with the power to create, to cleanse of evil; he is the one of darkness, bearing the power to destroy. Her touch cleanses evil; his touch can shatter anything into ash. Despite their shared mission, they belong to different worlds.

What could he know of the thoughts that plague her?

* * *

 _4._

 _He's running as fast as he can in the thunderstorm, his footsteps splashing his already-soaked fine clothes with muddied water. Never mind that he's dripping wet in the chilling midnight rain, never mind that he can barely feel his fingers from the freezing wind. His thoughts are a whirling kaleidescope, panicked and incoherent._

 _The last he'd seen of her had been in the open gardens after they'd defeated yet another enemy, she wearing her usual traditional red-and-black kimono and festival mask, bright crimson flowers dangling from her elaborate updo. She had leveled her parasol directly at his chest, an unspoken threat in her eyes._

 _But instinctively he knows that nothing is to be trusted, not anymore. From the moment he'd first heard her scream - a terrible, despairing sound - it had echoed torturously in his mind._

 _Where is she?_

 _And these are the only three words pounding through his mind. He can scarcely feel the withering cold through the heartache._

 _Where is she?_

* * *

He awakens in a cold sweat, his heart thudding in his ears.

Again it is midnight, again he cannot sleep. Every night he awakens, tormented with an ever-changing mix of his worst nightmares. A torrent of memories whirls through his mind, and gradually they have begun to convince him that they must have been true. This legacy they bear is fraught with despair and futility.

He confides in Plagg, but the kwami is uncharacteristically silent. Tell me, he says, I need to know. How does this end?

He can only bear the kwami's attempts to divert his questions to half-hearted remarks about Camembert cheese, and soon he gives up.

Now his Lady's eyes are shards of ice behind her mask, and it is clear she barely tolerates his presence.

They do not fight as partners anymore. She has distanced herself from him. The worry has become frigidity, the quietness has become hostility. She is becoming increasingly ruthless, and he has not seen her smile in weeks. He is helpless to stop it, whatever this is.

Has she, herself, succumbed to the demons?

The work of akumas might be devastating, but it is also abrupt. These akumas overpower their victims at their lowest points, whispering to an emotional need for fulfillment, and the resulting change is sudden and drastic. And he suspects that Hawkmoth could never succeed in winning against the will of his Lady. No, this change is different; it has been gradual and all-encompassing, changing her completely into someone he no longer knows.

He would give anything to go back to the way they were.

* * *

He does a bit of reading.

And as he pores over dusty books in the archives of a grand library, he realizes that everything he has seen in his dreams belongs to eerily precise moments in history. He has inherited the mantle of a superhero who belongs to centuries of legend. From each age came two companions, always bearing different names that fit their cultures, who changed the fates of their people and perhaps even of mankind.

With greatness comes sacrifice, with sacrifice comes despair. Somehow, the world was always irrevocably changed after they were gone, hurdling towards a new destination, the reign of another era.

As he sifts through his painstakingly written notes, he begins to see the pieces of the puzzle emerging, bound by a logic he does not want to see.

There must be another way.

* * *

 _In every era, the heroine Ladybug has battled the demons that plagued humanity. Her presence usually marks a critical juncture in our history, a time marked by uncommon strife and unrest. Her work ensures our safety; her legacy has left purity and goodness where it should not exist._

His Lady is unrecognizable.

She stands across from him atop a building, seeming untouched by the winds of the tempest swirling about her. She might seem appear exactly the same, but it is as if a new person wears her mask.

"This is your only warning," she says. Her voice is clear and strong. "Do not try to stop me."

He takes a step backwards, knowing he can't make that promise. This is all too soon, too real.

 _And yet, this task she shoulders is not to be taken lightly; accepting the emotional wounds of her people can have tremendous psychological impacts on her. Her golden age of peace and prosperity cannot last; the very nature of her identity means that she bears this burden alone. When she purifies demons, the evil does not disappear. It merely changes form._

 _Of course, the exceptional strength and goodness of each Ladybug makes her the ideal person to combat the demons for an extended time period. This is a criteria of utmost importance; in order to take up the title of this superhero, she must possess a nearly inhuman moral excellence and fortitude that will allow her to do battle with demons that would have easily overtaken anyone else._

"Please," he says finally, "let me help you." Fate be damned, if he can just save Ladybug...

Her eyes narrow. "Perhaps you should think about helping yourself instead."

 _Her companion, Chat Noir, has always been a figure of mystery. He is associated with misfortune, darkness, and destruction, and yet he o_ _ften he aids Ladybug in her quest against evil. N_ _umerous cultures have interpreted his presence as an anomaly, perhaps an antihero fighting for noble causes. Notably, his touch is capable of disintegrating any object into nothingness._

He takes a deep breath, feeling utterly powerless. Fate has figuratively bound his hands, and a terrible resignation seeps through him as he considers his choices.

"Ladybug," he says quietly. "What are you are going to do?"

She doesn't answer, but he sees a menacing answer written in her face, the chilling truth etched into every line of her body. Paris will fall by her hand; she who saved her city will also destroy it. Her reign will be complete and unending; she knows the weaknesses, the flaws, of every last innocent and she will make them suffer for it, for the torture they have put her through.

"I can't let you," he says, almost inaudibly. "I won't let you."

Her sinister, threatening smile hurts him more than physical pain ever could. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, readying herself from battle.

"It seems," she says, "that we have unfinished business to attend to."

With a terrifying certainty, he knows that she means to kill him. His grip on his staff tightens, his palms suddenly cold. He has no choice; his life is forfeit if he loses, and he will have surrendered everything that he has ever fought for. If he wins...

...if he wins...

He knows that he must win for his sake, and for everyone's sake. Even for hers. He tells himself that he will do what must be done, even if it leaves him a mere shell of a person, even if it breaks him completely. She would have wanted it that way, and she would have done the same for him.

 _She who purifies demons will become a demon._

 _He, whose touch destroys, will destroy her._

 _Thus is their fate, as it is the only way to destroy the demons that would ruin us. And in another era, the cycle of good and evil will begin anew._


	2. Chapter 2

_[A/n]:_ For the prompts "Spreading Grand Wings" and "Down to the Foundation." Fighting demons is a tricky business, it is.

* * *

 _Megara, 1,700 BCE_ _Ancient Greece._

* * *

She'll never forget the look on his face when they piece together the damning truth.

All of his worst suspicions have been confirmed, and his face has become pale in the dim lamplight. Even the vibrant golden colors of the lion skin on his back seem to suddenly fade, the very vitality and energy sucked out of him. She supposes the bitterest end of the bargain lays with her partner; the duty of watching one's beloved sink into the depths of madness and depravity - and then vanquishing them - is hardly one to be taken lightly.

"Meg," he says quietly, "Don't believe this. We're not going to let it become a self-fulfilling prophecy."

She knows that he sees the doubt settling across her features because he clasps her hands in his, voice suddenly taking on a steely edge. "If you believe in the legends then they will come true," he tells her, urgency behind every word. "If you believe you will fall to the demons, then you will. I don't believe it, Meg, and I'll do anything to keep this from coming true. But I can't do this alone."

She nods fervently, but finds her words stolen. He doesn't know the invisible weight that adds to her shoulders each times she purifies a demon, the doubts that spiral through her mind at night, the dedication with which she has hidden these trials from him, the great and famed Hercules. The truth is that her duty _does_ take a toll on her, whether she admits it or not.

"You know," he adds slyly, sensing an opportunity, "I would move meow-tains for you. I'm not kitten."

She narrowly stifles a giggle; only _he_ could manage two terrible cat puns in the midst of this dire hour.

"All right," she says. "I agree, there's no use in accepting this as fact. I do worry, though - after all, I am purifying demons, not exactly low occupational hazard there..."

"What if I did it for you?" he interjects brightly. "We can even take turns!"

"I don't think it's possible," she begins, but then stops and thinks. What, exactly, is preventing him from purifying demons as well?

"I think it's a splendid idea," he says, eyes suddenly alight. "You can teach me how to purify demons, Meg! It'll be fun!"

 _Purifying demons_ and _fun_ were not two phrases Meg ever expected to hear next to each other, but she already has begun to entertain the idea. Hercules' creative ideas never fail to be unusual, but sometimes they might even work. After all, this is the man who has defeated all sorts of monsters using largely improbable methods. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it's probably him.

"I have never seen someone so excited at the prospect of purifying demons, of all things," she says, "but all right. Let me show you."

"Claw-some!" he exclaims as she casts an amused look at the ceiling.

* * *

She has spent so long carefully crafting an alter ego that would allow her to fight alongside her husband and secretly soaking up the grief and misery that permeate the land following these wars. At this point, to fall to her own demons seems a waste.

Whoever had come up with this dreadfully depressing cycle?

She pulls her deep red scarf tighter around herself, fingering the delicate black dots that adorn its edges. Its color has darkened a little, she muses, deepened a bit from the crisp cherry red she originally wore. Perhaps after all this demon purification she has asked of it, that could even be expected.

And what an incredibly thankless job fate seemed to have granted her, unless she rebels against it. She has been doomed to play the hero for only a little while, bear the burdens of everyone else's darkest emotions, until the demons she has worked so hard to tame finally wrestle her into submission.

But she knows her husband refuses to follow the path fate has set for them, and so will she. And together they hope to fly where others have fallen, to rise where their ancestors have failed.

Perhaps they can. Fate does not know her strength or wit or skill, nor can it know her determination to succeed; it has nothing but empty promises of destruction.

* * *

Interestingly enough, his intuition had been spot on. Soon, with her instruction, he manages to purify his first demon and force it away from its unlucky servant onto his own miraculous. He winks at her, bright hair shining flaxen in the sun.

"Well done," she says, but she can't hide the worry in her voice. "Do you feel any different? Does the lionskin feel any heavier?"

He shakes his head quickly. "I feel fine, Meg," he says, smiling a little too giddily as he twirls the club in his hand like it's a child's plaything. "Don't worry about me."

She lets out a breath and suddenly smiles back. It's a shot in the dark, it's a gamble against fate, but right now she's standing in the sunlight with the man she loves and somehow she's caught up in his infectious happiness.

He lifts her in the air and whirls her around. A weightless feeling swoops in her stomach, and she feels as if she is flying. She laughs as he gently sets her down, and realizes how long it's been since she heard the sound. That's how starved she is for hope, how desperately she wants to believe in miracles.

"We will win," he says, his eyes a searing, brilliant green. "I will burn cities to the ground before I let anyone hurt you." She believes him. Hers is a ironclad love, determined and loyal; but he has always matched her steadfast affection with the ferocity, the passion of a thousand burning suns.

* * *

"This might have been the greatest idea I've ever had," Hercules enthuses, having purified yet another demon. The sky stretches overhead, vast and inviting blue, as he smiles at her. "Except that one time I killed the Hydra with fire, that was pretty cool too."

But she can't let him purify all the demons, worried as she is for his safety.

And as she mulls it over she realizes that despite the fact that this cycle is relentlessly cruel, it is quite ingenious.

Evil is never vanquished; it merely changes form. When she watches her people fall to the demons lurking in their souls, she realizes how all-encompassing, how terribly consuming the demons can be. They tell you that you are better than all the rest, that others have selfishly overlooked your needs for their own desires, that you are the only one who ever was right in the end. Soon enough you are convinced that others need to pay for their crimes, and that you are the only one capable of delivering that justice.

She has seen all of it firsthand, and she is glad that she can accept their burdens. At first she hadn't noticed that her vibrant red scarf seemed to grow a darker and darker color as she wrapped it around cursed objects that bore these demons, and that it is gradually veering towards a dark, dark red reminiscent of blood. It had been a matter of years and years, of battles forging onward and, somehow, a future that only seemed to grow brighter.

Then, months ago, she had noticed the thoughts that flitted across her mind in waking hours, or right before she fell asleep. She recognized them all too well.

 _You're Ladybug. Why spend your time saving these people when they have never done anything for you? Why face demons when they can't face theirs? They don't deserve you. They never did, and you've always been their foolish servant. Drop the charade, and then you'll see._

With a growing horror she had realized that the demons had never left her. At first these dark inclinations had been sporadic, but now she faces them regularly. Their intensity merely grows, and she wonders how long it will be before she snaps.

 _You could take over if you wanted. You could do anything if you wanted. Don't you want to see what this city looks like in flames? Hear them screaming for the mercy they never have given you? The red of spilled blood and the black of endless night. Those are your colors, Ladybug. Raise your hand and watch it all burn._

The demons tell her that she is past the point of return now, that there is no saving her. She doesn't let herself believe them: she must be strong for herself, for her husband, for her people.

Hercules never fails to boost her morale with his witty quips and cheery cat puns, and that, if nothing else, is keeping the demons at bay.

Maybe, just maybe, two can bear what one could not.

* * *

She finds him at sunset, staring into the red sky.

"Hercules," she says, and knows from the set of his mouth that there is something he does not want to tell her. "Fighting evil is hard work," she says, choosing not to press it. "We've embarked on quite the life path, you know."

"I don't know how you do it," he says. "I don't know how."

Her heart sinks, slipping like the setting sun.

"For me," he says, his profile awash in crimson light and shadows, "it happened all at once. Seven demons, that's all it took."

"Herc-" she begins, reaching for him, but he cuts her off.

"No," he says, fighting for breath. "You have to let me speak, because if I don't say it now I don't think I can ever say it again. Because I won't be _me_ anymore, Meg. I'm losing the battle before it's begun. Six demons and I felt on top of the world. I was on my way to saving you, we were going to win, everything. And then the seventh demon came, and only then did they begin eating away at me. I can't tell their voices from my own thoughts. Meg. _Meg-"_

And suddenly he's sobbing like a child in her arms, and Meg feels despair crystalizing in her chest as she realizes that both of their souls are forfeit.

* * *

 _We've corrupted you already. You've surrendered, can't you see that? You're like him. You can't tell the difference between our words and your thoughts. You've lost, you've lost. We control you completely, and there's nothing you can do about it._

She understands, now, why Chat Noir always has the power to destroy anything he touches. It is the only power capable of destroying demons. All she has ever done is force them to change form.

The only problem is that demons have a nasty habit of latching onto people's hearts. _Kill me and you kill them_ , the demon laughs. _Just try. Are you a hero then?_

There is a solution. Let them accumulate through the years, let them dig their claws deep into her soul until she cannot take any more, and then destroy the single weak link. Destroy _her._ It makes terrible sense, actually. Once she has been corrupted beyond hope, there is no going back and every last trace of her - or rather, the demons that have taken her over - need to be eliminated. Her personal suffering means nothing next to the greater good.

Now, all she has managed to do is take him down with her. No, it wasn't enough that the demons gradually drag her into evil; they had to obliterate her last hope (the hope that he would be happy, that he would be safe). And once they had broken him, she could do nothing but surrender all at once.

* * *

No hope for this cycle; everything must be destroyed.

In exchange for battling the abyss, she had exchanged her life; he had given his soul.

And despite their despair, both shouldered the kinds of evils that would leave the world brighter after their departure.

Maybe, just _maybe,_ their successors of the future might succeed where they had not; perhaps salvation need not go hand-in-hand with destruction, and could there be a way to balance their duties to their people and to their own souls?

This was their prayer, lit like a candle amidst darkness.


End file.
